


status quo

by youcouldmakealife



Series: always in tandem [49]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 16:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17625572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “They’ll notice,” Elliott says. “You had the game-winner, they’ll notice if you leave after one beer.”“I don’t—” Georgie says. He’s about to say he doesn’t care, but that’s not true. Robbie’ll notice.Or he won’t.





	status quo

It’s not Georgie’s first time playing the postseason anymore, but it’s still weird going into April and not starting to make plans for the offseason, but instead mentally gearing up for the playoffs. It’s easier this time, maybe because it isn’t the first time, maybe because he’s in a place where he can focus on the game. Not much else to focus on, honestly. Nothing safe, anyway.

They take down the Habs with some level of ease; too much, maybe. It’s the kind of series where the puck luck, momentum, chemistry, it all went their way, and it’s easy, Georgie thinks, to get fooled by that, to come out of it feeling invincible.

Puck luck doesn’t go their way against the Lightning. They’ve got a hot goalie who’s matching Crane save for save, and the Caps scoring dries up just as the Lightning’s offense surges. They’re taken down in five, as ignominiously as they took down the Habs, and Georgie may have gone without a single playoff game in his first three seasons, but it doesn’t matter: you adjust to plenty quickly, and this isn’t enough. It’s not nearly enough. 

Georgie goes home, and his mom lets him sulk for forty-eight hours before she tells him to get over it, to start looking forward. Forward is another year in Washington, grasping and grappling and statistically, probably falling short again. Georgie makes arrangements for training, tries to continue sulking where his mom can’t see it, which is hard, because she’s got a knack for knowing when he’s letting himself fall towards self-pity, will knock on the door to his room, or nudge his shoulder on the couch, tell him to stop. It works, at least in the short term, and then it’s hard to sulk in his room because he no longer has it to himself, Will out of school and snoring in the bed across from his, banging on the bathroom door when Georgie’s taking a shower.

“You know, you are a literal millionaire,” Will scowls when Georgie leaves the bathroom. “You can afford to sublet somewhere. Or, hell, you can afford to _buy_ a place.”

“Aw, but then you’d miss me,” Georgie says.

“Like down the block, even!” Will says. “And then I’d actually have some hot water.”

“They say hot showers are bad for you anyway,” Georgie says.

“Who’s _they_?” Will sputters, then, as Georgie’s shutting the door to their room behind him, “Don’t leave your towel on the floor again!”

Georgie considers doing it just to bug him, but ends up slinging it over the foot of his bed. It’s good to be home, but the house starts feeling smaller and smaller — Georgie offered to help pay for a bigger place, but mom and dad won’t budge — and when Dicky comes to visit they all get on each other’s nerves, not enough space and too much time together, scrapping like they’re all teenagers again, half jesting, half serious. He goes up to Rochester a few days before training’s set to start, and no one objects all that much. Georgie would take more offense if he wasn’t set to spend another few weeks there before training camp.

Sawyer got traded from the Americans to the Baby Sens towards the end of the season, but he’s not budging, at least for the summer, probably because his girlfriend’s a local, and Sawyer’s cousin is one of the best damn trainers in the business, comes to where Sawyer’s at and gives them all a friends and family discount too. Georgie splits a sublet with Barksy, though it’s the opposite of home, the place they’re staying in so fucking huge they only meet up in the kitchen, the living room, pretty much have a space to themselves.

Sawyer’s cousin absolutely destroys them and puts them back together better, as usual, and other than the bone-tired feeling at the end of the day, it’s chill. Georgie fucks around a few times with a friend of Sawyer’s girlfriend, who’s hot and interested but well aware he’s not looking for anything beyond getting laid, maybe a good conversation before that. She offers both, which is nice, and when he heads back down to Providence she doesn’t ask him to stay in touch and he doesn’t offer.

It feels like no time’s passed at all between their unceremonious exit from the playoffs and the start of training camp. Georgie’s not sure he missed, well — he missed some things. He missed the clean sheet of ice at Kettler, fundamentally no different than any other practice facility, but comfortable all the same. He missed playing, actually playing, not the disorganized offseason scrimmages that more often than not started and ended with bickering over the dumbest shit — who was stuck playing goalie, whether the puck was high-sticked in, whether Sawyer’s cellies were obnoxious or hilarious.

He missed Robbie, but that’s something he’s been accustomed to for a long time, and it isn’t something that goes away even when Robbie’s right there.

“Good summer?” Robbie asks, the day they get back.

“Sure,” Georgie says, and doesn’t elaborate, because Robbie’s already stopped listening, face lighting up when Elliott walks in the door. Georgie remembers seeing that face in college, Robbie grinning every time he saw him, whether it had been days or hours since they last saw each other. Robbie still hasn’t learned how to keep everything off his face.

They start the season solid. Start the season as the first pair D, and the responsibility of it makes Georgie feel kind of sick at first, but they settle into it quick, holding their own. More than holding their own. Georgie’s one-timer is converting on the PP, and on the PK Robbie’s blocking shots like he’s a goalie — or, at the very least, Devon Crane’s best friend beside the posts — so they’re not doing bad apart either, but they just keep on getting better together. 

Off the ice, things are — well, mostly what Georgie expected, what he’s gotten used to. Robbie’s mostly holding up his end of the tentative truce, though Georgie doesn’t know how tentative it is at this point — it’s been more than a year since Robbie offered him one last heartbreak fistbump for the road in Allston. They talk a lot, honestly, but it’s mostly hockey. Don’t hang out, except in group situations. 

Robbie’s still dating. Well, Georgie doesn’t know if you can use the word ‘still’ when he never stopped. It’s a grinding mill of guys who’ve lasted anywhere from weeks to a few months, and he never stays single long. Georgie knows it wasn’t like this before he got to Washington — it’s not something Robbie’s said, not something anyone said, but it’s clear enough regardless. 

He wonders about it. If this is Robbie afraid to be alone. If this is, more accurately, Robbie afraid to be single when they’re still in this ugly place where nothing’s right but nothing’s finished either, afraid that simmering fucking rage would die down and they’d end up — 

Robbie would tell him not to make everything about him, he knows. Mom would give him that look, tell him to let this go, that it’s poison. It’s not like he says anything about it. They aren’t thoughts that get anywhere near touching his tongue.

They hit November and Robbie’s latest guy apparently reaches the ‘tell the teammates’ point, or, Georgie guesses, ‘tell the friends’ and Georgie just happens to be sitting close enough at team dinner to hear it. Robbie’s never been a quiet talker, so two seats down, Georgie not only doesn’t have to eavesdrop, he can’t avoid hearing Robbie telling his cohort about his boyfriend. He sounds particularly happy about it this time. Georgie wishes he hadn’t noticed that. 

“Do you straight up try to find dudes with the most old fashioned names?” Dougie asks, which is a good question. It’s been Henry, Alfred, and Allen — both went by Al, which was…unfortunate — in the past year. Now it’s Ted. Georgie doesn’t know where he finds these guys.

“Ask him about Francis,” Georgie says before he can stop himself.

“Fuck you, George Kenneth,” Robbie says. “Like you can even talk.”

Georgie can see the moment Robbie realizes what he said, what he implied. He can see Elliott, beside him, wince out of the corner of his eye.

“Neither can _Douglas_ ,” Georgie says quickly.

“Hey!” Dougie says. “First off, it’s Doug, not Douglas.”

“That doesn’t really help, Dougie,” Elliott says.

“Like Elliott’s any better,” Dougie counters.

“Does anyone else on this team have a name that isn’t meant for an eighty year old, Christ,” Robbie says, like Roberto’s such a youthful name.

Devon somehow, without a single word, makes his presence known, something about the way he tips his glass. “But no fucking way would I date you,” Devon says. “No offense.”

“Offense fucking taken,” Robbie says. “But dude, you’re a ginger, so whatever, it’s mutual.”

“Wasn’t the second Al—” Elliott says.

“Unhelpful, Matty,” Robbie says. “Unhelpful.”

“My hair is auburn,” Devon says, absolutely frosty.

“That’s not even a thing,” Robbie says dismissively.

“Dineen, tell him it’s a thing,” Devon says.

“It’s a thing,” Georgie says, and shrugs at Robbie when he scowls. Robbie’s well aware it’s a thing, he’s just arguing for the sake of arguing. It’s probably his favorite thing to do.

“You’re just taking his side because you’re practically a ginger,” Robbie accuses.

“Uh,” Devon says. “Are you secretly color blind?”

“I mean,” Robbie says, waving a hand up and down like he’s encompassing Georgie’s everything. “He’s not a redhead but he’s got like, all the other ginger shit. South Park, dude. Georgie burns in the fucking _dark_.”

“Daywalker,” Georgie says. “Or, I guess, the opposite of it.”

Robbie points at him. “That’s the one,” he says, with a bit of a grin, but it slips off after Georgie returns the smile. “So, Ted,” he says, eyes still meeting Georgie’s, and Georgie recognizes it for exactly what it is.

“Is that Theodore, or Edward?” Devon asks, mostly disinterested sounding.

“Tedward,” Robbie says, after a pause that says, obvious as anything, he doesn’t actually know the answer. Georgie doesn’t take pleasure in that. It’d be fucking stupid to take pleasure in that. Doesn’t let himself read anything into it, though, the rate Robbie’s running through guys, Ted will be gone in a month, replaced by a Lawrence or Stuart or Harold or something.

*

Ted sticks around.

Ted sticks around for awhile.

“Are you okay?” Elliott asks, the first time Ted — and what kind of fucking name is _Ted_ , who voluntarily chooses to be _Ted_? — comes along after a game.

He’s wearing Robbie’s jersey. Well, not Robbie’s jersey. He’s a big guy, almost Georgie’s size, though it’s something softer, a body lived in instead of worked for. Robbie’s jersey wouldn’t fit him, but he’s got Lombardi all over his back. Georgie wonders if Robbie asked the front office to send him one, if Ted went out and bought one himself. 

Robbie’s not even bothering to hide the fact they’re fucking — _fucking_ , is glued to his side. It’s got to be serious if Robbie’s taking the risk, not just introducing Ted to his friends, the teammates who are already well aware Robbie has a boyfriend, but bringing him into a setting with the whole team, or at least whoever bothered to come out after the win. It’s an open secret, with Robbie, not like it is with Chaps, or Georgie, even, but it’s almost a ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ deal. No one outside of Robbie’s circle talks about it, and Robbie doesn’t talk about it with them.

But now there’s _Ted_ , and it couldn’t be more obvious he was with Robbie, not just with, but _with_.

Georgie needs to get out of here.

“Georgie?” Elliott says, hovering by Georgie’s table. Georgie doesn’t even know how long he’s been there. This is actively pathetic, Dineen.

“I’m fine,” Georgie says, and is totally unsurprised when Elliott doesn’t appear believe him, considering his hand is practically white-knuckling his beer. “I mean. He’s not — I don’t have any fucking right —”

“Yeah,” Elliott says, sitting down across from him. “It doesn’t really work that way though.”

“Why do you even care?” Georgie asks. He hopes it doesn’t come out rude. He doesn’t mean for it to. Elliott Matthews is as Team Robbie as anyone Georgie’s met, excepting himself in college and _maybe_ Robbie’s mom. Georgie wouldn’t have an ounce of sympathy to spare for anyone who hurt Robbie the way he did, and he knows Elliott is aware of exactly what went on. He’s pretty sure he’s the only one, at least on the Caps. David, but David just got the Cliff’s Notes.

“Just because you hurt him doesn’t mean I want him to hurt you,” Elliott says. “I mean, he’s not — I don’t think he’s doing it on purpose this time, but.”

“Yeah,” Georgie says.

“If you want to talk about it,” Elliott says, after a minute.

There’s nothing Georgie wants less, and even if he did, Robbie’s best friend isn’t who he’d be talking to, but it’s nice to have the offer, at least.

“You’re a good guy, Matty,” Georgie says.

“My mom says that,” Elliott says.

“‘You’re a good guy, Matty?’” Georgie says.

“Word for word,” Elliott says, and grins when Georgie huffs out a laugh. “C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink for the game-winner.”

“Cap Q already did,” Georgie says, raising his mostly empty glass.

“Then I’ll buy you another one,” Elliott says.

“I think I just need to head home,” Georgie says. “But thanks.”

“They’ll notice,” Elliott says. “You had the game-winner, they’ll notice if you leave after one beer.”

“I don’t—” Georgie says. He’s about to say he doesn’t care, but that’s not true. Robbie’ll notice. 

Or he won’t. 

Georgie blows out a breath. “One more,” he says. “Then I’m heading home.”

Elliott goes to the bar, comes back with a beer, something darker than the amber Georgie’s killing off. “You like stouts, right?” Elliott asks.

“Yeah,” Georgie says. “Thanks.” 

“Want me to sit with you, or—” Elliott says.

“Probably not good company,” Georgie says.

“That’s okay,” Elliott says, takes the seat across from him and sticks around anyway. Both of them spend more time looking at their phones than anything else, Elliott probably bored, Georgie trying to distract himself until the beer’s finished, until he’s free to go. He can hear Robbie laughing halfway across the bar, and when he can’t stop himself from looking up, Robbie’s got a hand on Ted’s arm, grinning up at him like he’s the best thing he’s ever seen. Georgie knows the grin well. It’s not quite the same as the one he reserves for Elliott now, but close. Both are grins Robbie used to send his way.

Georgie’s still got half his beer, but he’s had enough. “I’m going to head out,” he tells Elliott, who glances at the beer, but just says, “See you at practice?”

“Maybe,” Georgie says. It’s optional, so maybe. He almost never misses optional practices, but right now he just wants to go home, open a beer where it’s safe, and, he doesn’t know — probably dwell on shit. It’s going to be a busy night.

Georgie doesn’t even wait to order himself an Uber, can do it outside, and he makes his way out, a slow trek because everyone wants to congratulate him for the game-winner again. Robbie isn’t one of them, which is probably good. It’s a good ten minutes after he stood up — fuck, he could have brought his beer and finished it by this point — before he reaches the door, and he hunches his shoulders against the slight chill to the air, doesn’t let himself look back to see if Robbie’s noticed him leaving.

**Author's Note:**

> [Obligatory mention that I have a tumblr for this 'verse!](http://youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com/)


End file.
